Vengancestuck
by SuperYuuki
Summary: You are a Prospitian warrior and a healer. When Jack Noir flips out, you're on The Battlefield to witness it. A rivalry sparks, and not one that will be easily resolved. Questionable Blackrom Jack x OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Vengeancestuck

**Rating:** T (blood, blackrom, language)

**Genres:** Adventure, Romance, Suspense, Angst.

**Summary:** You are a Prospitian warrior and healer. You heal, by mending wounds and performing surgeries. When Jack Noir rampages across Skaia, depleting the entire army to nothing, you fight back.

**Pairing:** Jack Noir x OC (questionable and Blackrom)

**A/N:** Hello Homestuck fandom, after getting caught up with the comic all the way to [S] Cascade and looking at some fan-art, reading some fan-fiction, ect, I thought to myself, Why aren't there any stories about Skaian characters? Like Prospitians and Dersites? It's all fan-trolls and humans. Why not make a character that's a resident of Sburb?

This is my first attempt at writing Homestuck style, so please tell me how I'm doing. Oh, and fail title is fail. As for RC's "barely decent skirt," think Warcraft, and think High Inquisitor Whitemane. That kind of barely decent.

**Disclaimer:** SuperYuuki doesn't own Homestuck (of course not. Even I can't come up with Weird Plot Shit that bizarre). Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie. SuperYuuki does own RC, though.

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Vengeancestuck

Chapter One: Scarlet Stains

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You stand high above the battlefield, the blood stained chessboard spreading out for miles in all directions. The wind blows, displacing your already barely decent skirt. You don't mind. It still covered everything that was necessary, and it wasn't like there was anyone around to see it. If the hems of the skirt weren't soaked in blood, and therefore weighed down, then it would be a problem. Your left sleeve had been destroyed, the frayed, blood-stained remains fluttering listlessly in the breeze. The healer's garb you wore left your shoulders exposed, but you never minded. Your long, flowing white hood dances in the wind, the tip stained from accidentally being dipped in a puddle of gore. More blood dripped from the laceration upon your non-dominant forearm. The scrapes on your legs still stung as even more crimson fluid oozed from the crisscrossing cuts, marring your white carapace with imperfections. Your grip tightens around your ornate battle-staff, the cruor dripping down from the spikey, sun-like ornament placed at the top. You whacked many a Dersite with it. Trust you to bludgeon a soldier to death. You had very recently wove a couple long, black feathers into the cloth wrapping near the top. They are a cherished trophy to you.

Absently, you reach up with your injured arm to wipe your face. Blood (there seems to be no shortage of the substance) flowed from the clean cut on your cheek. It, unlike your other wounds, would likely leave a scar. You wonder how you made it this far alive. You'd somehow survived the massacre that followed the Dersite agent Jack Noir's… episode. You seemed to be ridiculous sturdy for a healer, a Resilient Caretaker, if you will.

Sitting down, you set down your staff and grip your already damaged sleeve and tear it off completely. You rip it in half and painstakingly wrap it around your left forearm, binding the wound securely. You pick up your staff once more and rise to your feet, using your weapon for leverage. You take a deep breath and exhale, composing yourself.

Your next task would be figuring out what to do next. It was a task that you had no idea how to go about completing. It is for this reason that the next occurrence would be a welcomed one.

A shadow of a distinct shape passes over you, accompanied by the sound of swooping wings. Not this bozo again. You grip your staff with both hands and assume a defensive pose. You raise your eyes to meet his, a look of defiance painting your features. You've had enough of this guy's antics.

Jack Noir's face twisted in anger at your behavior, his already thin eyes narrowing in rage. He swooped toward you, faltering a bit from the wound on his left wing. You smile a bit at that. He seemed to be missing some primary feathers. Hahaha. Ahahahahahaha.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Two hours earlier…_

. . . . .

You run to the site of a fallen Prospitian. You remove your pack and hastily sift through the contents until you happen upon the bandages and antiseptic. You look back at the wound and purse your lips. Maybe some sutras as well. You hastily get to work disinfecting the wound. When the soldier doesn't cry out from the sting, you check his pulse, which is fortunately still there, but not very strong. He only has a few minutes unless you do your job well.

You reach for the sutras, and find the scissors first. You slide the scissors into your sash for later use, when a sudden shifting of movement behind you causes to drop the medical supplies and grasp your staff, prepared to aggress or abscond as fit. You spot the disturbance immediately. A little Dersite has somehow made its way through the Prospitian lines. He charges you, regisword in hand, but you implement a skillful dodge and harshly aggrieve the stout little soldier in the back with your pointy, ornate battle staff.

He falls, you kick him to the side and let him bleed out. You cared not for Dersites. Those pitch carapaces disgusted you. The evil Dersites would destroy Skaia if not kept in check or even annihilated. You look him straight in those beady eyes as he finally dies. Good riddance.

You turn back to the wounded Prospitian, only to stop when you no longer notice the rise and fall of the soldier's chest. With frantic haste, you check his pulse once more. Nothing. You shed a tear, but you do not linger. This is your life. You've spent so much time on this checkerboard battlefield that you're beginning to forget the golden streets of Prospit. You don't especially miss it, but you don't exactly want to stay here forever.

A sound began to reach your ears, barely discernable. You weren't sure if it was a few people close by or a lot of people far away. You look in the direction of the sound, swearing you could see the sky slowly changing color. You continue to listen intently as the volume of the noise slowly grew to the point where you could easily recognize it.

Screams. The sky _was_ changing color, leaving a horrible red-ish glow upon the horizon.

A shadow sped over you, accompanied by an intimidating whoosh. You start to shake, your confidence wavering as you realized that the Black Queen must be upon you. You keep a close eye on this shadow, watching with utmost prudence, until it began circling towards you. With honed reflexes, you immediately pull the medical scissors from your belt and fling the sharp device toward the Queen's approximate location. You turn just in time to see the scissors stab the... that was not the Black Queen. Whatever this was,

Unfortunately, this only serves to anger the rampaging Dersite more. He tears the projectile from his wound and launches it right back at you. Fortunately, you are able to deflect it with your weapon, sending it into the ground next to you.

He grips his Regisword and swoops towards you in a rage. He aggrieves, and you just barely avoid a fatal wound, instead gleaning a cut to the cheek. He flies past you, circling around for another assault. It is time for you to start improvising. He speeds towards you, but in the last possible moment, you duck, then spring upward to cling to the back of the Dersite's legs. He shrieks in anger and tries to shake you off, but you have a different idea. You bring your legs up to wrap around his, and, using his own feet as leverage, leap upwards to perch precariously on the Dersite's shoulders.

You hold your Battlestaff at ready, prepared to aggrieve him, when a black tendril wraps around your midsection, wrenching you off of him. In a last move of desperation, you slam your weapon into his wing, the strike removing a handful of feathers. The Dersite shouts profanities as he falters somewhat, bringing the two of you closer to the ground. He rips you from him and throws you tumbling towards the Battlefield.

Luckily enough for you, the altitude he had lost earlier saved your life. You escaped that fall with only a handful of nasty scrapes and bruises. And even more luckily, he seemed to think that the fall had killed you. Haha. Oh boy, was he wrong.

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_Present_

. . . . . . .

He scowls when he notices the feathers on your staff. '_Oh? You want these back?'_ You challenge with your eyes. _'Well come and get them, bastard.'_

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**A/N:** This is before Bec got prototyped, so that might clear up some confusion.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** A good song to listen to while writing anything Homestuck related is "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars. :3

I've already come up with the two other names that RC will have. I can tell you the second one (Reformed Combatant), but I can't tell you the third one, because it would be a spoiler should you look up the words in a dictionary. Unless, of course, Jayshock, if you really want to know, you can text me.

Incidentally, I have come across a plethora of Clara Barton quotes that relate to this story… especially the one I've put here… :3

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Vengeancestuck

Chapter Two: Be That Other One

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"What armies and how much of war I have seen, what thousands of marching troops, what fields of slain, what prisons, what hospitals, what ruins, what cities in ashes, what hunger and nakedness, what orphanages, what widowhood, what wrongs and what vengeance." -Clara Barton

. . .

_RC: Be Sovereign Slayer ==}_

.

You somehow manage to throw the irritating Prospitian off your back, sending her tumbling down to the Battlefield below.

Good riddance.

You continue to fly off towards Prospit, when you realize that you're going the wrong direction. You growl. Your skirmish with that woman must have caused you to get all turned around. Goddammit. If she survived that fall (which is completely plausible), then that bitch owes you big time. Especially because of this wound in your left wing. She _had_ seemed to be quite medically adept. You'll have Diamonds and Clubs track down her possibly unconscious body later. There is also the issue of the stab wound in your leg. At first, it was just annoying, but now your leg is beginning to go numb, which you're pretty sure is a bad thing.

You falter a bit mid-air.

Dammit!

After a bit of clumsy flying, you finally spot a blip of blood-stained white. You fly closer, eyeing the bright yellows, greens, and pinks. Oh yeah, it's her, alright.

She lifts her eyes to meet yours, that annoyingly ornate (but painful. Oh gog, painful) battle-staff held at ready.

Wait. Wait. What the… on the staff… are those… YOUR FEATHERS?

THAT BITCH! THEY ARE!

You send her a glare that you are fairly sure conveys the gravity and strength of your anger, but to your astonishment, she grins like a madwoman and throws you a taunting look of her own. You seethe for a moment before charging towards her.

.

_RC: Stop being Sovereign Slayer ==}_

.

… What? This strikes you as a ridiculous notion, as you aren't and certainly _never will be_ that idiotic usurper or anything like him.

Fortunately, this odd thought does not distract you for too long, and you are once again fully concentrated on the inevitable strife.

… Oh, he's got to be kidding. Had he not noticed earlier that attacking you straight on _never works?_

He makes a direct swing towards your face. You parry with relative ease, keeping your eyes locked with his. Unfortunately, you can't read his expression. At all. Oh, it isn't because has a good poker face, no, his poker face is actually rather dreadful. The problem is that _all_ he shows is rage. The anger is so strong that you can't see anything else through it.

Your first warning is the sound of metal scratching metal. Your second warning was the sudden manic grin on the Dersite's face. No, he isn't that clever...!

Pain. That is the third warning, but once you reach the third sign, it's too late. The adrenaline coursing through you gives you a rather pleasant slow motion view of the black sword being embedded in your right hand. You jerk your hand away, holding onto your weapon with your non-dominant hand, causing you to falter with it. The act of jerking away your hand, while likely kept it attached to your arm, did tear off more carapace than you thought it would.

You immediately drop your weapon in shock. You are too stunned to scream, nor do you have any time to cry out. A foot plants itself squarely in your gut, sending you stumbling backwards. Now you do expression your pain. You land firmly on your hindquarters. At that exact moment, your brain decides it wants to function properly once more. You make a dive for your discarded weapon, desperately reaching for your cherished battle-staff. A sigh of relief escapes your lips as your fingers clasp around the golden handle. You do your best to ignore the atrocious stinging pain in your hand.

Unfortunately, the usurper is one step ahead of you. With a dull thud, your vision begins to fade out.

. . . . . . . . .

RC: Wake up ==}

. . .

Your eyes begin to flutter open. You don't know where you are. This isn't the Battlefield.

. . .

RC: Wake up more ==}

. . .

The dull ache in your hand makes bells go off in your mind. You had a fight with a strong Dersite. Now you remember.

Your eyes slide open. You give the room a quick look-over. Across the room, there seems to be a sleeping Dersite. It's round and stout, with a crazy multi-colored, spiraling jester's hat on. It's not the Dersite you fought with earlier. Upon assessment of your own status, you come to realization that not only are you trussed up a smidgeon too tight, but if your hand doesn't receive medical attention soon, it may as well be infected. You need to get out of here, but that's the ideal situation. Simply a better situation would be adequate.

Twisting around a bit, you are able to get ahold of the knot tying you to the chair. After working at it for… quite a while, actually, you do get it undone (apparently, that stout little Dersite can't tie a good knot). You untangle yourself, just in time for the door to open.

You turn, finding yourself face-to-face with the winged Dersite that you fought with earlier. He looks a little worse for wear. The stab wound on his leg appeared to be a little infected, and blood was caked all over one of his wings.

He seems to notice your appraisal of the injuries, and scowls. "So, doc, what's the verdict?" he says sarcastically.

You are taken aback. You just stare at him for a moment until some movement near the doorway catches your eye. You see two Dersites, one huge and one simply tall, peeping in the room expectantly, but not at you, at the Sovereign Slayer.

Sovereign Slayer scowls vehemently. "Look," this seems to cause him physical pain. "It seems we got off on the wrong foot." You notice the two in the background nodding, "How 'bout this, you tend to my injuries, and I let you live, which is pretty fucking generous of me seeing as you caused them in the first place," he added venomously.

You take a cautious step back, but you continue to meet his eyes.

"So, what's it going to be?"

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**A/N:** I don't like this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

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Vengancestuck

Chapter Three: Healing

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"_... the door that nobody else will go in at, seems always to swing open widely for me."_

_-Clara Barton_

.

. . .

RC: Answer the question ==}

. . .

No. Shut up.

. . .

RC: Just answer it! ==}

. . .

No. Go away.

. . .

RC: Just Answer the gogdamn question! ==}

. . .

You lean away from him in disgust. You have no intention of answering in an affirmative manner. Dersites are foul creatures; you refuse to associate yourself with one. Such an occurrence would be horrible, demeaning, and just overall unpleasant. That he would even suggest that you'd be willing to even speak to him without hostile intention is a huge insult to your pride.

Assuming an erect posture, you look him in the eye for a moment before lunging forward and delivering a fist to his face.

His head snaps to the side. After a moment, he growls and sends a deadly glare your way. "That's it," he spits, blood splattering on the purple floor. His tentacles stir and you take a defensive step back. "Offer expired, bitch."

The tentacles slowly snake towards you before shooting forward. You immediately grab the closest blunt object, the chair. You manage to whack away a tendril before the other wraps tightly around your injured arm. You cry out, and the one that you previously aggrieved wraps around your middle. You drop the chair in surprise. The other tentacle releases your arm, but comes back around to bind your arms.

In a rage, he throws you into the wall before lifting you up and slamming you into the opposite wall, as well. You see stars.

In your daze, you hear voices, voices like your assailant's, but worried.

"Boss, what are you doing?!" one yells.

A snarl. "Dealing with an annoying pest!"

You hit the ceiling. The world spins.

"No, Jack stop it! You're going to screw up everything!" another snapped.

"Dignitary, shut up!"

"Boss! Don't kill the pretty lady!" cried yet another.

You hit something again. You are not sure what. It could be the walls or the ceiling; you can't tell anymore. There is more cacophony of voices, but one cuts through the rabble with deadly calm.

"If you kill her, you're never going to be able to use that wing again, Jack."

That seems to get his attention. You are stopped mid-motion.

He growls and releases his grip on you. You fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, trying to recover from the intense trauma. Suddenly, an angered hand grabs you by the collar of your shirt. A brutal fist slams across your face, punctuated by a resounding crack. You are sent flying.

You partially recover within a few moments, but not without difficultly.

Once again, he jerks you up by the low collar of your top. You are too out of it to protest to the man-handling.

Jack looks you right in the eye. "Pull another stunt like that and you're DEAD, got it?" he snarls, barely understandable.

Begrudgingly, you nod.

"Good." He grabs your bag from a shelf and tosses it to you before flopping down in the chair. You catch it deftly and look at him.

A pause. "Well?" he gestures to his wing. "Fix it!"

You step over tentatively and begin examining the wound. The blood has caked over it, but you are pretty sure it needs stitches. Briskly, you demand that someone get you a basin of water and a cloth.

The shortest Dersite hops up happily. "I'll get it!" he calls.

His enthusiasm breaks the heavy tension. Likely seeing no more reason to be here, the large and tall Derse agents leave, but the tall one, Draconian Dignitary, lingers at the doorway. "Be good. _Both_ of you."

With that, you are alone with Jack Noir.

You decide to take this time to treat your own wounds. You sit on the floor and pull a handful of antiseptic wipes from your bag. You unwrap one and begin cleaning the torn skin on your arm. It stings. You wince.

After you use up a few of the wipes, you reach into your bag and remove some bandages. Carefully, you wrap your forearm tightly in the cotton strips.

Out of curiosity, you take a moment to inspect your newly gleaned bruises and scrapes. You are sure there is some severe bruising on your back and shoulders, perhaps some on your scalp as well. Upon investigation, you discover that the back of your shoulders have been torn up, raw and oozing blood.

It is very difficult to bruise or damage carapace like this. You should know. You're trained in this stuff.

Tenderly, you place a hand to your face, palpitating the place where Jack punched you, expecting black eye. You are shocked when your carapace gives under your touch. Your breathing picks up. No. This is bad. This is very, very bad. You take you hand away and a few shards of bloodied carapace stick to your fingers.

He had shattered your face.

You should be screaming in pain. The area around your eyes is extremely sensitive. It is a vital part of carapace and having cracks in it leaves your body vulnerable to infection. It needs to be treated as soon as possible to keep away serious infection, but you doubt that there is anyway to reconstruct your face.

The small one re-entered the room, precariously carrying a porcelain water basin and a couple towels. "I got the water and towels like you asked, ma'am!" he called happily.

"Took you long enough, Droll," Jack sneered.

Droll grins widely. "I tried to find the softest towels!"

You explain to Droll that softer towels could actually be detrimental to Jack's comfort. You say that you don't really care, though.

In fact, you are more worried about having to use one of those to clean the cracks in your carapace.

Droll frowns. He says oh.

You take the towels from him and instruct him to place the basin on the floor beside Jack. He complies, and you take a towel and soak it, then you wring it out before beginning to clean Jack's wound.

Just as you hoped, the wound was deep and severe with an abundance of muscle and tendon damage. Several primary flight feathers are visibly missing. You know where they are: on your battlestaff, of course.

You chortle. You did good.

He scowls at you. "Proud of yourself, eh?" he snaps. He seems to be enjoying the warm water. Most people do.

Heh.

You place the towel aside and take up an antiseptic wipe, digging it as far into the wound as you can.

"Bitch!" he jumps, gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

You reach into your bag and pull out a pre-threaded needle. You grab his wing and try to hold it steady as he struggles. Without hesitation, you begin stitching. At first, you're relatively gentle about it, until the end, of course. You renew your grip on the needle and pull tightly enough to cause quite a bit of pain.

"OW! Fuck! Careful, bitch, that hurts!"

Scowling, you apologize and inform him that you don't use anesthetics on anything less than an amputation, because otherwise you'd have no painkillers for those who really need it. After a thoughtful pause, you take back your apology and call him out for cracking your carapace.

He clenches the arms of the chair. "I'll crack your face more if you don't quit it!"

You tell him to be happy you're dealing with his wounds at all after the shit he pulled.

Jack growls, but you still have a hold on his wing, so he doesn't dare attack you again.

You take a pair of scissors and snip the stitches, tying them off. Mercilessly, you attack it with another antiseptic wipe, sterilizing the wound once more. You are disappointed when he doesn't even squirm. That you enjoy his pain doesn't come as much of a surprise. He obviously deserves it.

You retrieve a few bandages and calmly request that he stand.

Jack asks why.

Frowning, you tell him to just do it.

He does so reluctantly. You give him further instruction to tuck in his wing. Jack complies, grumbling.

You don't want to tell him that you've never actually treated a winged creature before and aren't exactly sure if you know what you're doing. This doesn't stop you from covering the wound with gauze, using medical tape to keep it there.

He asks what the bandages are for.

You say shh.

As carefully as wanted to be, you bind his wing to his back, successfully immobilizing it.

Jack glares at you but doesn't protest.

You proceed to examine the wound on his leg. It is bad, but it isn't _too_ bad. However, with the equipment you currently have, there wasn't anything you could really do about the infection. Taking a scalpel, you carefully cut into the barely closed wound. He yelps, but at least you've stopped indulging yourself in his pain and have begun taking pride in your work, or else he'd be screaming. Lucky bastard.

Seething, he demands to know what you're doing.

You explain how the infection has gotten bad and you need to re-open the wound to clean it.

He just growls and you continue to work.

You disinfect It as meticulously as you can, stitch it back up, and bandage it well.

When you are finished, you stand and take a final look at your handiwork. As soon as you see the bright white bandages against the Dersite's pitch black carapace, you have to fight back the urge to vomit.

Suddenly, you are disgusted with yourself. You should have refused this altogether. You feel like a turncoat, a traitor.

After packing up your equipment, you begin to walk towards the door. Maybe you'll run into that tall Dersite again and he could show you where you can stay.

A hand stops you. "Wait, bitch. What the fuck am I supposed to call you?" Jack asks roughly.

You tilt your head at him.

"Like, I dunno, a codename or some shit. What your buddies call you."

You explain that you have no buddies.

It was true. While Dersites disgusted you, your own people simply had a simple-minded disposition that irked you. They normally shied away from your serious, unkind attitude. Your backstabbing, brutal way of fighting disturbs them. It doesn't matter, though. As long as someone appreciates your healing, you are happy.

And now, most of the Prospitian army has been decimated. You have little reason to fight. Perhaps you should just stick to healing now. It seems like that was all you were going to do, anyways.

It was time for a reform. You are no longer a combatant.

You tell him to call you exactly that. Your name Is now Reformed Combatant.

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**A/N: **I'm not going to lie. I've had this written in my notebook since April. It is August.

Welp. Imma ollie out and watch more of Marble Hornets on youtube. Wish me good nightmares.


End file.
